


Far From The Tree

by tyrsdayschild



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad stuff happens to kids, Clone Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:39:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrsdayschild/pseuds/tyrsdayschild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off <a href="http://solarcat.tumblr.com/post/95647730636/shouldnt-steve-be-sterile-too-really-otherwise">that</a> tumblr post about Bucky finding a passel of Steve clones...</p><p>Bucky is methodically ridding the world of the research that made HYDRA's manipulation of him possible so it can never be done to anyone else, when he finds out HYDRA has gotten further with their super soldier research than he ever feared possible. With ten clones of Steve he's rescued from the lab, he has to try to keep them safe and find Steve before HYDRA finds them, while he and the kids try to heal from what's happened to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From The Tree

Andrea arched her back, trying to shake out the kink that had settled there over the course of the last hour. She sighed, and looked back down at the results of Gen 3’s first fMRI IQ evaluation. Briefly, she returned to the fantasy that the images were just the result of Gerald fucking up, of how _satisfying_ it would be to have something concrete to rub his face in. She looked at the clock- the subjects should wrapping up with eating. If she wanted to do a preliminary follow-up with Gen 3 today, she’d have to do it now, before their evening meds knocked them out.

“Goddamnit,” she muttered to herself as she reluctantly stood, gathering up her materials. She had hoped that Anton and Bert’s language delays and eccentricities were just some manifestation of the same behaviors they’d observed in Gens 1 and 2. But now, she thought, heels clicking as she strode down the short hallway from her office and past the lab to the storage room, now to see the _goddamn imaging_ , to have to consider that the _only_ truly viable subjects they’d produced in _fifteen years_ might have some kind of cognitive degeneration, like those damn blacks from the fifties-

She took in a deep breath as the palm scanner verified her identity, putting on her best “child psychologist” smile. She _ached_ for a cigarette. She swung the door open.

“Dr. Andy!” Echo shouted, running forward, hugging her low around her waist. Carefully, she closed the door behind her, ruffling his hair as she tried to discretely push him off.

“And good evening to you Echo,” she said. “Do you remember what I told you about our professional relationship? About how I can’t work with you when you behave like this?” Reluctantly, the eight year old let go, wandering back over towards his set when she gave him a gentle shove. Delta was lying on the ground, furiously coloring while muttering to himself, and Fox was drawing beside him, looking down at the page and refusing to acknowledge her entrance. She felt a petty spike of annoyance at the subjects’ spiteful silence. Be that way, she thought. Fox and Delta were equally disobedient- Delta in violent outbursts, Fox in passive aggressive disinterest. The only subject from Gen 2 worth a damn was Echo, and even he was little more than an obedient mockingbird who’d agree to anything in exchange for a smile. Sometimes she regretted protesting the order to scrub the batch- but at least they weren’t Alfa, she thought, eyeing the thirteen year old’s shadowy figure curled up under one of the bunks in disgust. Bravo was attempting to do chin-ups off the edge of another one of the bunks while listening to his damn language mp3 again- a militaristic little idiot, she thought, but he was making an _effort_ to make his life worth something more than just being a warm body.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shriek from one of the Gen 3s, and her mind returned to her purpose here. Cesar was messily smearing peanut butter on a graham cracker while chattering with Dorian- at least the controls were still viable, she thought bitterly. Bert was pressing his head into Charlie’s side, keening slightly while drinking a juice box, and Anton had once again stripped off his clothes and sat on the floor beside the low table in briefs, gesturing emphatically to Charlie in the ersatz sign language Gen 1 had taught them, some incomprehensible mix of finger spelling, military signals, and pantomime.

“Charlie,” she said disappointedly, walking over to the low table, “What have I told you about sign language?”

“Good evening Dr. Andy,” Charlie said, voice strained but polite.

“I’ve told you _not_ to let them use it,” she said. “I’ve told you several times.”

“But I- I have to talk to them somehow, ma’am,” Charlie said, starting indignant but quickly remembering himself. In any of the other subjects, Andrea wouldn’t have let the defiance slide, but sometimes she worried caring for the lesser subjects was making him soft. He could kick against the bounds a little, as long as he still acknowledged they were there.

“Well, they won’t learn to talk unless we make them,” she explained, “And if they don’t learn to talk, they won’t be useful- and you do want them to be useful, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am,” Charlie said quickly, eyes down cast, wrapping an arm around Bert protectively. Bert keened more loudly and went rigid. She noted Charlie had gotten a split lip at some point since she last saw him. Andrea crouched down and reached out, cupping his chin and turning his face up to get a better look at the injuries old and new that had begun to layer on his body. She could see the edges of bruises peeking out from his collar and sleeves.

“You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you?” she said.

“I’m strong,” he said. She could see him swallow convulsively, but he didn’t pull away from her touch as she turned his face from side to side.

“If you’re having problems-“

“I can handle it,” he said quickly, “Them. I can- they’re no problem. They’re useful. They’re strong. Please, Dr. Andy,” he said, struggling to make eye contact as she tilted his head back. “I can take care of them.” She let go of his head and knelt down on the ground beside him, next to Bert who had shut his eyes tight and across from Anton who wouldn’t stop staring. Even Cesar and Dorian, next to Anton, had stopped their chattering and were looking rapidly between the two of them nervously. She smiled at Charlie- gently, nonthreateningly.

“You’re a good boy, Charlie,” she said, and she even meant it. “I’m glad we didn’t scrub you.” Charlie looked like he was about to cry with relief. “Tell you what,” she said, continuing quickly before unnecessary sentimentality could overwhelm the boy, “Why don’t you help me give the Gen 3’s a practice test, and afterwards I’ll make sure Dr. Billy gives you something that’ll heal you right up so you can take care of the others- deal?” He smiled, nodding. She pulled out the IQ test booklet and flipped it open. “Okay, now Anton, Bert, Cesar, Dorian- one, two, three, eyes on me.” When the three and half year olds were all looking at her- even though that took Charlie physically twisting Bert around into his lap, whispering quietly in his ear to keep the boy from panicking- she held up the first page, showing the picture matrix to the children. “Now who wants to answer the first question?” she asked.

Sirens blared. She startled, dropping her booklet and clipboard on the table as she stood.

“What’s going on?” Delta shouted over the noise. Had there been a lab accident? Andrea thought.

She could hear the sharp pop of gunfire through the door. They had had no word from their Head since Captain goddamn America had blown INSIGHT out of the sky almost a month ago. No calls, no emails, no visits, no funding- this couldn’t- they couldn’t possibly be scrubbing the _entire program_ \- she was brilliant, she was _useful_ , they were finally getting results, they couldn’t-

“Give me your gun,” Bravo said. She whirled to face him.

“What?”

“Give me your _gun_ ,” he said, pushing his glasses up, “I’m the best shot out of all of us. I can protect us if you just-“

“I don’t have a _gun_!” Andrea interrupted, “I’m a scientist not a-“ there was another bang of gun fire. She had to leave, she thought, with a clarity given by the rush of adrenaline thrumming through her veins. She breathed easily, stepping out of heels. Her wallet and keys were still in her pockets. There were no more gunshots. The lab was full of files, computers- it would take time to search. She had a few moments. She slid the bright white coat from her shoulders.

“Dr. Andy,” Charlie said. His face was white, his hand pressed tight over Bert’s mouth to stop him from screaming. “What are we going to do?”

There were ten of them, she thought. Ten subjects, ten _children_ , my god, ten little fucked up kids. I can’t save them, Andrea realized. They’ll slow me down and I’ll be killed.

“Dr. Andy,” Charlie repeated urgently. She looked away from him. She could see Alfa watching them eerily from beneath one of the bunks.

“Hide,” she said, “You all need to hide. They- they’ll think this is a storage room and pass you all by.” She could feel the seconds slipping by. She walked to the door, pressing her hand to the scanner. Charlie stood, following her, leaving Bert curled up, half hidden beneath the table.

“Doctor,” he began, but she interrupted him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, the parental instinct the men had always accused her of but she had never felt suddenly manifesting, twisted- not a mother’s love for her child, but a creator for her creation.

“You take care of them,” she said. “And you,” she added, looking at Bravo, “Protect them.” The door clicked, unlocked. “When one head is cut off, two more will take its place,” she said, “Remember the protocols. Hide.” She swung the door open and slipped out, shutting it quickly before any of the subjects could follow her. She didn’t see anyone in the narrow hall, could hear someone going through the lab. She turned and ran, bare feet padding silently against the linoleum.

\---  
LernaGEN was a small genetic analysis lab in the suburbs of Worcester, Massachusetts. It was a quiet, unassuming little firm, with a small staff of scientists who came early and stayed late most days and an equally small security staff. The fact the building was under guard twenty-four seven was perhaps a bit unusual for a lab of its size, but nothing to raise a red flag over. Nothing except the contents of a material transfer agreement from SHIELD, nothing except a little digging revealing LernaGEN to have requested massive amounts of StRo line cells over the years and enough growth medium to practically make a damn copy of- his mind skipped over the name, like a finger brushing a hot stove- _him_ , if they wanted to. LernaGEN was conducting super soldier research- he was sure of it. And from the hints he had gleaned from the files declassified on the internet, they had gotten further than anyone else.

He had a moral obligation. No one would ever do to another what was done to him. He would burn every lab that ever touched the serum, put a bullet in the brain of everyone who had so much as glimpsed even half the formula if he had to. It ended here, with him and- _him._

He saw the day guard walking to the parking garage, the night watchman settling into his post, still somewhat distracted. He had staked the building out for nearly a week- it was time to go, he thought.

He crept up behind the guard booth in the driveway as the day guard pulled away onto the road, and quickly ripped open the door from behind. The man barely had time to half-turn, a shocked expletive on his lips, before he had plunged his knife into the watchman’s heart. Grabbing the man’s collar, he carefully lowered him to the ground, grabbing his wallet out of his pocket and unhooking a carabiner of keys and key-cards from his belt.. He stood, and flicked the switch to freeze the gate bar in the ‘up’ position, and strode out of the booth to the main entrance. He sheathed his knife and pulled the pistol out from his waistband. He could do covert if he had to, but it had never been his specialty.

The Winter Soldier was a force of nature- deadly and unstoppable. He threw open the doors to the lab and shot the receptionist in the head.

One of the scientists must’ve heard the shot and thrown an alarm. He swiped the guard’s key-card through the magnetic lock and walked into the lab proper. An older man with a round face and wire rim glasses who had been trying to evacuate down the hall froze when he saw him in the doorway. He fired twice, hitting the man once in the chest and a second time in the head, stopping only to pick the corpse’s pockets before continuing down the narrow hallway, quickly clearing the small offices before stepping into the large lab space. He could see a man’s feet kick out as he scooted under a lab table supporting a large piece of equipment, some kind of automated pipette whirring through a sequence, dispensing a viscous liquid into dozens of test tubes. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the lab, his footsteps masked by the wail of the alarm, and fired twice, at an angle, aiming under the desk. There was a cry, and a thump as the scientist sprawled over, legs kicking out.

The workstation was still logged in. With rusty memory- they had started to phase him out of espionage around the time computers got big- he navigated through the file directory, pleased to see the lab used a shared internal server. Fishing one of the high capacity data sticks favored by SHIELD and HYDRA out of his pockets, he set the computer copying the lab’s research notes, and as many of the internal memos and messages as would fit. He turned back to the body sprawled beneath the desk, a substantial pool of blood spreading from it, and grabbed it by its ankle, yanking it into open.

He rifled through the dead man’s pockets, stuffing a wallet and set of keys into his already bulging pockets. Standing, he looked at the names on the reports lying open on the desk. W. Reynes, MD, Pediatrics. A. Park, MD-PhD, Neuropsychiatry. G. Sidneys, MD-PhD, Genetics. A handful of reports from researchers not listed as working for LernaGEN- he folded and pocketed those with addresses or phone numbers on them to know where to look next.

He heard a door shut. He turned smoothly on his heel, striding out of the lab, sparing a glance to the computer monitor- the download was sixty-five percent complete. He pulled out his pistol and chambered a bullet as he walked down the narrow hall. There was a door with a palm scanner. He paused for a moment, then slammed his left arm into it as hard as he could, ramming it open. He flicked the light on and quickly spun around the door frame, scanning the room, gun up.

It was a small room, made smaller by the five bunks shoved against the perimeter. A low round table dominated most of the floor space, covered with crumbs and empty juice boxes and, incongruously, what seemed to be doctor’s notes. A door was ajar in the corner and he moved to clear it. He looked down, and saw children’s drawings scattered on the floor around a small plastic box of stubby crayons and _the colors were wrong_ he realized, someone had used pink where they should’ve used yellow, blue where they should’ve used green and-

_-Steve was sitting on the school bench with his sketch pad trying not to cry._

_“I_ ruined _it, Buck,” he said miserably, “I worked on it for_ days _and I ruined it.”_

 _“Naw you didn’t,” he said, “It’s_ modern _, Stevie, it’s_ abstract _, it’s-“_

-he jerked his head up and kicked in the door, swinging the gun back and forth quickly. It was a small bathroom that smelled faintly of standing water and bleach with no one in it. He could hear a small humming sound, and a rustling. He walked back into main room, ears primed for the small sounds underneath the wail of the siren. He crouched by one of the bunks- two boys, one with his hand over the mouth of the smaller boy are lying beneath it, the younger boy squirming kicking in the older’s grasp, and-

_-Steve is eight and it’s the first day of school. His arms are pinned behind his back by Davy Morris, and Walt Sanders lands a solid blow to his stomach. Steve kicks out, knocking Walt in the knee._

_“Take it back!” he spits, and Walt laughs, and Bucky has already crossed the hallway to land a sucker-punch on Walt’s back-_

-but-

_-Steve is five and he’s lying in bed, red faced and rashy. Ma had sent him over with Becca to have a ‘chicken pox party,’ but he looks so still Bucky can’t help but start crying, grabbing Steve’s shoulders and trying to shake him awake, shouting-_

“Steve,” he says, involuntarily, the word burning his mouth as he spoke, unable to stop staring at the boys under the bed. The older boy squirmed back, pressing himself against the wall, and he reached out for them-

A heavy weight dropped onto his back from the top bunk. He overbalanced, falling back, small arms wrapping around his neck in a well-executed but inadequate headlock. He grabbed the arm and wrenched it around- a young voice screamed as he pulled the would-be attacker off him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another boy roll out from beneath another one of the bunks and scramble to his feet, charging towards him. He held the boy who attacked him in-front of him by his injured arm, leveling the gun to his head.

“Stop!” he barked- the other boy, skidding to a stop in front of him, a horrified look on his face. They froze looking at each other, the injured boy twisting and struggling between them-

“M…my friend Herc worked in Argos,” a raspy voice mumbled, barely audible above the cacophony.

“That was his second job,” he replied automatically. It was a simple code phrase- one of many such exchanges used by HYDRA operatives when they crossed paths on assignments to determine if the other was friendly. He turned- another boy, the same age as the two who had attacked him, was standing in a laundry bin, arms crossed, looking down.

“You’re HYDRA?” the boy in front of him asked, his voice laced hope that plunged straight into his gut. Little blond boys with the same face, he thought, genetic sequencing, conditioned to be loyal, _enough material to make a copy_.

“Yes,” he said. The boy relaxed visibly, even the boy whose arm he was holding stopped struggling, though still tense.

“Please,” the boy said, “We’ll be good, I promise, just put the gun down and-“

“I won’t hurt you,” he interrupted, letting the _unless I have to_ hang unspoken in the air. “I’m here to protect you.” He looked around the room- he could see a few more faces peeking out from beneath blankets and out of the shadows of the bunks, and he felt nauseous as he started to count them. He let go of the boy who had attacked him, lowering his pistol. “Round up all of the kids and whatever things you think are important,” he said, in the flat voice he used for missions. “You’re being moved to a safer location.”

“Y-you’ll need to ask Doctor A- ah, one of the doctors for a key to the cabinet,” the boy said hesitantly, “Our medication-“ He turned and saw the counter and small sink along the opposite wall of the room, a line of cabinets above it. He grabbed the handle of the first cabinet with his left hand and wrenched it off its hinges, repeating the action until he had revealed two plastic tubs with various pill bottles and syringes inside. He placed them both on the counter. The alarm had been ringing for nearly five minutes- first responders would be showing up soon, he thought.

“We’re moving out in one minute,” he said, “Be ready.” He walked through the door way, striding quickly towards the lab. The file downloads were complete- he quickly clicked through the folders to confirm he had medical records for the children, quietly horrified to see ten such records on the drive, and disconnected, pocketing the data stick. He attached an explosive to the underside of the lab table with a timer set for ten minutes- when it went off, the chemical fire it created would burn for hours, unable to be extinguished by water. Impulsively, he grabbed a laptop and charger off the lab table, and followed the narrow corridor around the corner to the server room, attaching a second such explosive to the wall. They were difficult to obtain, but it was worth using up his supply of explosives to destroy the data from this “experiment”. He walked back to the children’s room, mentally counting down the seconds. There was a flurry of activity, and he counted two sets of triplets and two sets of twins. Two of the younger set of triplets were kneeling on the counter grabbing food out of the cabinets and passing them to their other brother to shove into pillowcases, while one of the older boys stripped the blankets off the beds and another was looking through the cabinets as well, making sure all of the medication had been taken. The remaining of the older boys was trying to wrestle one of the older twins into clothes. All of the children were small for their age and underdeveloped, except for the older twins who, if the half-dressed boy was any indication, were tall, with unusually well-defined muscles, despite being no older than five or six. He felt a shiver of adrenaline as he realized the lab may have been even more successful than he feared.

“We have to go,” he said. Quickly, the children scrambled behind him as he walked, carrying blankets and pillowcases. The two youngest twins held each other’s hands, and a stack of drawings each. The boy trying to dress the toddler gave up and picked him up, clothes only mostly on, and hustled after them, weighed down by his squirming brother. He slowed his stride moderately, but not by much. They would already be cutting it too close for his comfort.

They exited the building by the back, and the children seemed dazed by the low evening light, blinking and disoriented.

“Keep moving,” he ordered when a few of them started to dawdle, staring at the world around them. Quickly, they made it to the parking lot adjacent to the lab. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the keys he had pilfered, He ascertained that the largest car in the lot was a hatchback and quickly tapped unlock on each of the keys until he found the set that flashed the hatchback’s lights, dropping the other unnecessary keys on the ground. “One in the front seat, one in the wheel well,” he said, “Four in the backseat, four in the trunk.”

“Alfa, pass me a blanket,” the older boy carrying the toddler said. He set the squirming boy down and wrapped the proffered blanket tightly around his shoulders. “There we go, that’s ok, just try to sleep,” he said soothingly, picking up the younger boy and lying him in the back of the car. Alfa wordlessly passed him another blanket and he repeated the motion with the other of the older twins, the younger two clambering into the trunk of their own accord. The younger set of triplets had scrambled into the back seat, while the older boy whose arm he had hurt stalked into the front seat with a sort of wounded pride. The other of the older boys laid down on the floor of the back seat, expressionless.

“I’m Charlie,” the remaining boy began anxiously, “And that’s Alfa, and-“

“Get in,” he interrupted impatiently, turning away and getting into the driver’s seat. ‘Charlie’ quickly hopped into the back seat, knees pushing into the back of his chair awkwardly while he and ‘Alfa’ arranged themselves so he wouldn’t be kicking him in the face. He started the car, peeling out of the driveway.

“L-like I was saying,” Charlie said, clearing his throat into the awkward silence in the car. “I’m Charlie, and Alfa’s on the floor, and Bravo is beside you. Delta, Echo, and Fox are next to me, and Anton, Berty, Cesar and Dory are in the trunk.”

“The alphabet,” he said. What they called themselves was almost secondary- he could only hear one name when he looked at their faces.

“What’s your designation?” Bravo demanded from beside him, voice tight with pain. He looked at the boy’s arm, which had bruised and was starting to swell concerningly. Guiltily, he refocused on the road, looking away from the injured boy.

“I am,” he hesitated, the words sticking in his throat, “James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant,” he shut his mouth abruptly, biting off the _three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three-eight_ that threatened to spill out automatically.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” Charlie repeated back, “Do you have a preferred way for us to address you or-“

“Whatever,” he said abruptly, the name, _his own name_ , like pins on his ears, “Unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Okay,” Charlie said nervously.

“Do we have mission parameters?” one of the younger triplets asked, and Charlie hissed, “ _Delta!_ ” reproachfully.

“Not yet,” he told him, “Right now you just,” he paused trying to think, “Right now I just needed to get you all out of there.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t safe.” He pressed down on the gas pedal a little as he heard sirens whirring behind them. He wanted to put distance between them and the building before anyone realized the car was missing, and he didn’t want the children.

“Where are we going?” Delta asked, a hint of a whine on the last word.

“Don’t worry,” he said instead of answering, flicking the blinker on as he turned, merging onto the highway, headed for the state line. “I’m with you. Everything is going to be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> So obviously the kids were not literally cultured in petri dishes. Bucky is speaking hyperbolically- he just also happens to be foreshadowing. ^^;; For comparison, if you rounded up all the HeLa cells, you'd have over 20 tons. Just thought I'd clarify. Also, to be clear, he's misjudged Anton and Bert's ages because of their growth.
> 
> The next chapter will slow down and have a lot more interaction between Bucky and the kiddos, but fair warning, it may take a while before I post- it took me ~12 weeks to write this chapter, but I'm working as fast as I can! I hope you enjoyed what I've written so far!


End file.
